


Knight to F2

by Svirdilu



Category: Chess (Board Game)
Genre: Parent-Child Relationship, Sacrifice, Yuletide 2018
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-18
Updated: 2018-12-18
Packaged: 2019-09-22 01:56:33
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,316
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17050889
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Svirdilu/pseuds/Svirdilu
Summary: The knight vaults off his steed, going directly to the bishop. The pawn feels his eyes on her as he passes, lingering oddly - she pulls down on the edge of her round cap, suddenly nervous.She's still close enough to hear him announce, "The queen is dead."





	Knight to F2

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Reishiin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Reishiin/gifts).



> It's a slight step sideways from one of your prompts, but I hope it satisfies! I had fun piecing together scenes for this and figuring out a couple board positions (though I admit it definitely doesn't have a full game behind it).

The abbey is calm in the chilly sunset wind, with the taste of frost upon the air. The little black pawn watches as orange and pink fade below the horizon; her breath puffs out in little white clouds.

She has always been here, in the abbey - as far back as she can remember. As the nuns have it, she was left on their doorstep like any other fosterling given up to the church to be raised. The pawn is too young to remember this; she can do nothing but take their word for it, though she dreams sometimes of silk sheets and dark gold.

The pawn backs from the edge of the abbey's tall wall, letting out a soft breath. She should go in. The bishop is visiting this evening. She will be missed if she's not to help with dinner.

But just before she turns, she pauses. 

The pawn can see the castle just down the mountain, a bare day's travel away. Normally the distant buildings are a sharp black contrast against the green plains or white snow in day, and glimmer appealingly with lanterns at night; she likes to imagine what daily life down below is like. Sometimes she tells herself a moving dot she sees near the castle are the king or queen, though really it's far more likely to be a rook.

But tonight... tonight the town's lanterns seem too bright.

As she watches, a plume of smoke billows upward. Her gasp feels too late, too slow in comparison to the way her heart immediately hammers into rapid motion. She stands for what is truly only a second but feels like far too long; then she turns and runs, shouting. "The town is burning!"

 

_♟ pawn to c6_

Were narrative convenience at hand, the knight's hoofbeats would have been heard outside as soon as the young pawn reached the main hall. As it is, the abbey hums in anxiety and dread for several hours before they hear any sort of news. The pawn is kept busy running to and fro, helping stock for a siege - even so, she notices the bishop staring at her often. Is it only because she was the first to sound the alarm?

Finally, perhaps two hours past midnight, there is a great pounding upon the abbey doors. Everyone freezes until another fosterling up above calls, "It's the queen's side knight!" - at that, the bishop himself helps pull the entrance open.

The pawn is instantly impressed as the black knight rides in. His cape billows about him, the edges ragged with battle but still lined with gold; his eyes, though his visored helm, glow red. He's nowhere near on the scale of a rook or royalty, but he looms in a way the skinny bishop does not, even if they're of a height. The knight's warhorse is no less awe-inspiring; it's light and lithe instead of bulky, unarmoured, but it dances from foot to foot as if longing to leap over anything in its way. Were she a white piece, the pawn thinks, she would be terrified.

The knight vaults off his steed, going directly to the bishop. The pawn feels his eyes on her as he passes, lingering oddly - she pulls down on the edge of her round cap, suddenly nervous. 

She's still close enough to hear him announce, "The queen is dead."

The entire hall falls silent. The bishop seems struck dumb. The pawn herself makes no noise - dread has hit her stomach like a trapdoor opening below her feet. She's never been personally attached to the queen, not with anything more than faint patriotism, but the thought of doing war with the white pieces without her...

"It's time," the black knight continues, inexorable. That seems to shock the bishop out of it - his face tightens into a more solemn expression. As one they turn to the black pawn; she jumps, then patters tentatively forward when the bishop beckons.

The knight kneels before her; he doesn't have to look up that far to meet her eyes. "You are to be next queen, my lady."

"What?" Her voice is small.

The bishop's voice is gentler than she's ever heard it, tinged though it is with a layer of grief. (Not that he's ever been anything less than kind to her.) "You are the heir, hidden here for your protection after your birth. You were not meant to know until you were grown - but now we have no choice but for you to claim your birthright." 

As the pawn digests this, he turns to the knight to add, "...which I'm not entirely certain how to do. Her late majesty would have known, but the two of you - you'll have to go to the shrine of the Player in C5. Pray for an answer."

It's impossible to read the black knight's expression behind his visor, but his pose is determined, ramrod straight. "We'll get one."

The pawn, standing with shoulders drawn in, looks away from the two of them to the abbey's inhabitants. Some watch her with shock; others, with an air of expectation. How many of them knew, all this time? And she - she still feels more than a little numb with shock. Of course she's dreamed, like any other fosterling, of having been secret royalty. The fantasy is nowhere near as nice in reality; mostly it seems terrifying. She doesn't know if she actually wants to do this. But the weight of the whole abbey waiting, _expecting_ a response from her - she can hardly say no. There's no choice at all.

Her eyes slide nervously back to the knight. Somehow, his unruffled presence is reassuring; her heartbeat calms a fraction. The pawn looks at the black bishop and nods.

Things happen very fast after that. It's not ten minutes later that the bishop is heaving her up, passing her into the black knight's arms, and she's settled just behind the pommel of his horse.

When they leave, she can't help but watch the abbey recede behind them in galloping bounces.

 

_♟ pawn to c5_

As it turns out, entry to the shrine of the Player isn't quite so simple as just stepping in - it requires a tribute be played on the stone pedestal before the front door. Prove you're worthy of attention, or the door won't budge.

In theory.

"But I know this puzzle," she says, scornfully. "Everyone knows this puzzle."

The black knight smiles down at her - with his visor pulled back, his mouth is slightly lopsided. "I'm not surprised." He nods toward the board. "Go on, then."

The pawn watches him out of the corner of her eye as she arranges eight queens on the pedestal. He's been melancholy, the past few days of travel - which isn't all that strange, if he was the queen's knight. But he's gone out of his way to interact with her as if he isn't grieving; it's only when she's busy with something else that the knight lets himself relax. He stares into the distance, expression distantly tired.

There's a strange sound as the last queen clicks into place (all her eyes staring away from other queens, as is proper). It's as though the sound of the little queen figure against the pedestal's rock has been taken and magnified and _stretched_ , a piece the size of a castle slamming down upon a rock plateau with a resounding _clack_. The pawn yelps, hands flying up to her ears (too late); the knight spins around and springs to defend her, sword halfway drawn.

As it happens, though, all that's changed is that the door to the inside of the shrine has vanished.

The pawn calms faster than the knight; she's headed inside before she thinks to look back at him. His red eyes are still scanning the surroundings warily, and she freezes - but he swipes his hand in a way that can't be read as anything but "go on." The sound of his sword sheathing echoes like both their footsteps down the dreary stone corridor.

There's nothing in the center of the shrine but a giant pair of stone hands, hovering out of the walls as if about to pick something up. The room is lit by an unearthly light with no source. For a minute the pawn searches fruitlessly for something written on the walls, the floor, the downward-facing palms of the stone hands - finally she pauses underneath the last, looking up. "Should I... climb up there?"

The knight seems equally perturbed. The pawn supposes he's never seen this happen in his lifetime. "I'll lift you," he says, finally.

The pawn clambers onto his shoulders as he kneels in front of her; when he stands, she carefully leverages herself up to her feet as he holds the base of her legs. But neither is there anything of note on the top sides of the hands. She shakes her head wordlessly at his questioning glance and sinks down to sit on his shoulders instead. 

"...maybe we need to pray, like the bishop said." It's something she's been told to do often, in the abbey. She's never gotten a response, or even that air of calm some of the nuns have afterward, but if it were going to work anywhere...

The knight shakes his head with a soft laugh. "I didn't think he meant it literally. But... it's worth a try."

Once again, he kneels, letting her slide off his back. This time he folds his hands in front of himself and bows his head, eyes closed. 

The pawn settles on the floor too, but she can't seem to concentrate; the stone is cold, and she's abruptly conscious of being under a layer of heavy rock. She opens one eye, looking around - nothing has changed. After another minute, she inches closer to the knight, ending up pressed against his side. Without looking up or any change in expression, he twitches his shoulder so that the edge of his cloak falls over her.

With him right next to her she feels safer; she settles again, trying to direct her thoughts upward. It's not any sort of traditional prayer, only a litany of: _I need to be queen, I can't let them down, I need to be queen...._

The eighth time she thinks the word 'queen,' there's another sharp _clack_ just like outside. The pawn jumps at the same moment the knight stiffens - when she opens her eyes, the stone hands have changed position entirely. They're now in front of the two pieces, sticking out of the floor in a pose that looks like they're cupping something.

The knight rises to his feet with a clanking of armour; the pawn patters over to the hands, looking and then reaching in. She retrieves three things: a silver fork, a dull gray sceptre, and a roll of paper. It crinkles when she opens it, and the looping script is hard to parse, but she didn't grow up in an abbey for nothing. 

"To Promote," she reads, "You must reach the End of the Board."

"May I..." the knight starts to ask, and she hands over the paper for him to look at as she inspects the sceptre and fork. As he frowns - there's nothing else written, and no hints hidden in the embellishments of each letter - she finds that the bottom half of the sceptre can be uncapped to reveal a knife. The fork, on the other hand, buzzes with a strange internal energy. She tucks it into a pocket nervously and wraps her hands around the sheathed sceptre.

"To the white castle, then," the knight finally says. The shrine obligingly lights their way out, to where his horse is pawing at the ground waiting for them.

 

_♟ pawn to c4_

They toss the fork back and forth over their tiny campfire that night, theorizing - the sceptre is obvious, and the paper is... less clear, but still straightforward in its own way. The silverware, though... what use could she have for it?

The knight grimaces over it. "There's something I should remember here, but it's clean left my mind." He passes the pawn a bowl of beans, a slice of bread, and a single, treasured stick of their rationed jerky. As she eats he spins the fork on the tip of one finger, then tucks it back into her pocket - "But keep hold of it. It's clearly bespelled, and if the Player granted it to us we'll need it."

They finish their meal, rinse out their bowls with snow, and set them down to dry. As the fire dwindles, the pawn slowly sinks sideways - she ends up with her head pillowed on the knight's arm, his back against a log. If she looks up, she can see the scruff on his jaw that many days without shaving brings and the steady red glow of his eyes. The last, after the days together it took them to get to the shrine in the first place - it's comforting.

Sleepily, she asks, "...tell me about your queen?"

The next week is mostly quiet. They alternate riding the knight's horse, walking, and the pawn riding as the knight leads. They skirt the edges of obvious battlefields, and only twice do they even encounter an opposing pawn. The first time they're both riding, and the black knight blazes them past before the white pawn can even shout - the black pawn isn't sure she was even spotted, or if the other pawn thinks only one piece passed him by. The second time the knight is leading, and he's forced to drop the reins and chase so that no alarm is raised. By now the black pawn is comfortable with his horse, and she pats its neck gently as she waits.

But their luck can't hold. They ride along roads, not through the forest - not unless they wish to cripple their horse immediately - and there's only so long before someone spots them.

It's a cold, clear morning when they hear hoofbeats charging toward them from the other direction, flashes of white through the trees around the corner. The knight pulls back on his horse's reins, making him rear and wheel sideways, and slides off onto the ground. But he hasn't quite managed to lead them into the shelter of the woods before two horses gallop into sight. They skid to a halt, sides heaving.

Both of the white knights at once. One calls out, his voice bland and flat as if he's going through the motions, "Who goes there?"

The pawn huddles down onto the horse's neck, watching _her_ knight - he's gone still, eyes darting from side to side as if searching for a solution. He makes as though to slap his horse's flank, get him galloping - but one of the white knights shifts meaningfully. The black knight might be able to trip up one of them, but he won't be able to stop the other from following.

"Just passing through," the black knight finally says. There's no emotion in his voice; he's going through the motions just as much as his counterpart. 

One of the white knights snorts. The other grunts, then responds, "I'm afraid we have our orders. Any enemy pieces found are to be captured,"

Captured, the black pawn decides as she watches her knight's hard expression, is too soft a word. She looks at the two white pieces next, ignoring whatever they say next in favour of eyeing their armour, their horses - after a few seconds, she sits upright in the black horse's saddle. Perhaps she should be scared - a knight is a far more dangerous piece than a pawn - but after spending so long with her side's knight, she can't be. They just aren't impressive enough, their pauldrons free of spikes, their horses delicate and nervous. They look like nothing more than pretty faces.

The fact that they're pretty faces with swords and hoofed rides, of course, is the problem.

She considers attacking one of them - surely they won't expect a pawn to charge at them? And if she can even distract one, she trusts the black knight to take the other down, then help her - she fishes for the sceptre in her pocket.

Her fingers close around the fork instead, and she jolts - the thing is practically vibrating out of her grasp. She yanks it out, pointing it at the two enemy knights -

Nothing happens. One of them gives her an odd look.

"Do something," she whispers harshly to the fork. It vibrates harder, a slight hum starting to become audible, but fails to shoot or explode or do anything else _useful_. "Come _on_ ," she insists, shaking it; then, in frustration, she flings it at the two white knights.

In the air, the fork _expands_ and untwists, in a way that hurts to look at. The pawn's eyes jerk away - she hears yells, morphing from startled to panicked to furious. Horses whinny in panic. The pawn shakes her head at a lingering hum in her ears, glancing back up.

To her amazement, the two knights and their horses are trapped in a jagged tangle of metal. The horses are thrashing, of course, and the knights are having a hell of a time keeping them from impaling themselves. More than that, though, the tangle of springs and bear-trap-like jaws are keeping them both trapped. Very clearly, one of them could climb out as long as they left their horse. Just as clearly, if they stopped putting pressure on a metal joint by not being present, the other knight would have giant metal jaws snap down on them.

She can't make out words yet through the fading hum, but they've very quickly fallen to arguing. 

The pawn starts as something heaves up on the black horse behind her, twisting to jab with her elbow - but it's just the black knight, and he catches her arm before she can complete the motion. She gives him a confused look the first time he speaks, until he leans close in and raises his voice. "We should go, before they make a decision."

As they trot carefully around the contraption - one of the opposing knights spits at their horse's hooves - she feels the black knight shake his head behind her. "A fork," he sighs to himself, "Like a fork in the road..."

 

_♟ pawn to d3_

When the black pawn pulls her dagger out of the back of the other pawn, she's shivering slightly. She swallows, swallows again - the bottom edge of her vision blurs and she reaches up to wipe her eyes, but reconsiders when she sees the red stains on her sleeve.

The black knight looms behind her - wordlessly, he offers her the edge of his cloak. 

"I'm fine," she insists, even as she reaches for it. She has to be. If she's going to be queen, this is hardly the first piece she's going to 'capture.' She needs to get used to it.

The knight doesn't say anything to her at first, just lets her press against him wordlessly as she wipes first her eyes, then her sceptre and her hands. She lingers, still rubbing the fabric of his cloak against her fingers as if she's searching for the last specks of red. It's perhaps a minute later that he finally says, "You don't have to be fine."

Not yet lingers in the air between them. So does eventually.

"I'm fine," she says again, with steadier steel behind her voice this time. The knight nods, letting it be. 

"Will you wait here while I bury her?" he asks, but he doesn't seem to expect an answer; when she doesn't deny it he moves away. The black pawn doesn't look while he makes a small sound of exertion and vanishes into the trees - she backs until she hits a trunk covered in bark and stays there. Her breath puffs out, cold, and she turns the sceptre over and over in her hands. Her eyes are dry, but they feel _too_ dry, like the chilly winter breeze is scraping them raw.

She wishes they still had the knight's horse.

When the knight comes back, he places a hand on her shoulder and offers a quiet, "Let me show you something." She nods, still not really thinking about it, and he leads her through the trees with the warm leather of his glove never leaving her shoulder. When, abruptly, they break out through the trees -

She can see the battlefield below, but the knight's pointing before her eyes can fix on it. Beyond plains and forests and the curve of the river, mountains rise, and on one of them...

It's only because she knows what to look for, but she can see the dark, miniscule shape of her abbey. For all its tiny size, and that she could never even dream to make out people - it's comforting to see it still standing stable. Only a single thing string of smoke trails from it, expelled from what she knows is the kitchens. It's nowhere near dinnertime, but if she were still home... this is about when they'd be starting to prepare it. 

Crows wheel in the sky that bridges her and her old home. She ignores them.

"Let's go," she whispers, finally. She's ready again now.

 

_♟ pawn to d2_

The white queen rumbles into place in the curve of the road behind them, a single giant eye fixed on them. The black pawn is pulling sideways into the bushes even before the black knight skids into the new direction and practically flings her - they scramble through the brambles. The high-pitched whine of the queen's presence stays close behind them, but the tree canopy hides them from view - for now.

Their run is desperate, belied by the patches of sunlight showing through the leaves above. The black pawn can hear no sound but for her own heavy breathing and the crack and crash of falling trees behind them. Her lungs and legs ache - but they keep going, and going, until she's only staggering along because the knight is dragging her. 

It's no use. The enemy queen is gaining. 

The black knight makes a muffled noise of desperate frustration - and then, suddenly, they're forced to skid to a halt lest they break out into a clearing. The pawn has just enough time to register two white pawns, a white rook, and the opposing king before knight whirls the two of them behind the shelter of a tree's trunk. The queen's blind searching intensifies, the heavy whine growing louder.

The black pawn muffles her panting into one hand, staring at the clearing with wide eyes. The white castle must be nearby, if this is the king's own position - yes, she can see it, beyond another curve of trees. But with the queen hovering overhead...

Her knight seems to be thinking the same thing - he kneels before her, placing both hands on her shoulders. For a moment his eyes are turned upwards, but then he focuses on her. "You'll have to run for it. I'll distract them."

Distract? But that would mean - "No," bursts out of her, and it's only at the last second that she manages to squish it into a harsh whisper instead of a yell. "No, you can't -"

"There's no other way to get you there before she finds us," her knight responds, deathly calm. And the pawn knows it's true, but she _can't_ accept it -

Abruptly, her knight pulls her into a hug. "Go, my queen. Save us," he whispers into her ear, his voice overflowing with fond undertones - and sad ones, too. Grief, like for his previous queen, but now it's that he'll never get to see this one grow. He tucks his cloak around her shoulders.

The pawn has barely enough time to cling to him and breathe in the scent of metal and leather and horse - then he's standing and pulling away from her. He crashes out through the borders of the undergrowth, and there's startled yelling from the direction of the king's group, but her knight only has eyes for the white queen. "Check," he yells, "Check, damn you!"

Inexorably, inevitably, the white queen pivots on him. The black knight raises his sword; the pawn's breath hitches on a sob, but she staggers on without him.

 

_♛ pawn to d1_

The moment the pawn steps into the castle, the sceptre heats up in her hands to a burn. She drops it, mechanically; as the end hits the white carpet, a ripple of black spreads from it and swallows her vision. 

_Promotion,_ she thinks. Instinctually she knows she has a choice - she can be queen, of course, as she was always fated to be, but she can also be rook or bishop if there's good reason to be, or...

Or she could be a knight.

She pictures herself - taller and full grown, glowing red eyes and a visor and a heavy sword. A cloak like the one she's wearing now, but less ragged and bloodstained and with the lines of gold still possible to make out - or, no. No, her mind rebels. She wants to keep this cloak. But her own steed, like her knight's long-lost one...

It wouldn't be the same, is the thing. She wouldn't have him back. She'd just be imitating him, and if that even gave her any comfort it'd be short-lived. A knight can't stand up to a queen or even a rook, and it's rarer than any piece but pawn that a knight can corner a king alone.

A queen, on the other hand...

She'd never been sure how much she wanted to finish this quest, running along at first out of obligation, then out of comraderie. But now: if she can't have her knight, she wants to make the white pieces _bleed_ for it.

She straightens, taking in her last breath as a pawn.

"Pawn to queen," she announces.


End file.
